Finding Home
by vlbuehle
Summary: When Peter Parker's family dies, he flees to the streets. Two years later, the Avengers run across a brilliant, angry, terrified street kid with spider powers who desperately needs a home and a family. Severely AU. Superfamily. Implied Steve/Tony, Coulson/Clint. Avengers KinkMeme fill.
1. Chapter 1

Peter Parker prides himself on his pragmatism. He's twelve years old and he's been on the streets for two years. He's seen men knife each other over a bottle of booze or five bucks, or even just for the hell of it. He's watched dealers ruin people's lives with the drugs they sell, watched junkies OD in puddles of their own shit and vomit. He's seen nightmares on the streets; if not for his powers, he'd probably be dead long ago. But sticky fingers are useful for impossible lifts, and even more useful in finding safe perches for the night. So far, he's managed to avoid getting hooked on drugs or selling his ass for food. So far, he's been lucky. His luck won't hold forever and he knows it; the older he gets, the fewer options he has. But for now, he's scraping by on scraps from the dumpsters, stealing wallets, and spending his days in the library soaking in every bit of knowledge he can wring out of the books there.

He's cynical in the way only street kids can be. He only cares about himself, or so he tells himself. Which doesn't explain why, when he sees a black-clad figure tumbling down, he reacts before he thinks. He doesn't know how to catch her; he knows just enough to know that if she's falling hard enough, he might kill her and himself if he just tries for a straight-up grab. But he's smart; he can do this. He leaps up, clinging to the dirty brick and twisting around, clinging with one hand and his feet, momentarily grateful that his sneakers are worn paper-thin and he _can_ cling like this. One hand is free and he triggers his webs, spraying them down across the alleyway. The uppermost web is thin and single-layered, but the one below it is double-layered and so on, each descending layer thicker and thicker. The Black Widow goes straight through the first layer, but the second slows her a bit, the third a lot more, and she's working with it, rolling so that her impact is spread a bit more, coating herself in the broken strands of webbing to slow her fall still more. She's a mass of webs when she hits the second-lowest web, bounces, and finally stills. Peter lets out a breath of sheer relief—he'd thought for a minute it wasn't going to work, and _then_ what was he going to do?—and scrambles across the web to her. He rips off his webs quickly, then freezes as he finds himself face-to-face with the infamous Black Widow.

"Spasiba," she says finally, and he quirks a smile at her.

"You're welcome," he answers in the same language, briefly marveling at how familiar it is for all that he hasn't spoken it in years. Mom taught him several languages; it was their little game and it drove his Dad nuts. Surprise lights her face, but she smiles at him.

He helps her out of the web, mumbling sheepish apologies as she picks bits and pieces of his webbing out of her hair and off her suit. He expects her to just leave, but she makes no move to go just yet.

"Cleanup," she says idly when he glances skyward again. "The rest are nearly done, I'd be of no use by the time I caught up."

He's not entirely sure he believes her, but…this is the first real interaction he's had with anyone in years. Okay, yeah, so the shelter workers sometimes try to talk to him, but he's too frightened of them to give anything but the shortest answers politeness permits, not when anything he tells them might be used later by cops or worse trying to hunt him down. The librarians will point him to books of interest, but they don't stick around long enough to actually talk to him, and forget anyone else. More to the point, the Widow is the first person who's seen what he can do and isn't treating him like a freak or a monster for it. He didn't realize how much he craved that until now, when he's unexpectedly found that unblinking acceptance.

He perches on the dumpster lid, and cracks a shy smile when she joins him. They fall back into Russian because, as she puts it, it's been too long since she spoke her mother tongue. And, well, it's fun, so he lets his guard down, just a little. He asks her about a phrase that's been bugging him in _War and Peace_, and she blinks but gives him a translation he can follow, then asks him if he's read any of Tolstoy's philosophy, which he has. He's having so much fun he doesn't even realize they're no longer alone until a throat clears, and he looks up into Captain America's face. Steve Rogers smiles at him, blue eyes warm and so friendly he actually feels a little tongue-tied. His gaze drops from Cap to the red and gold clad figure standing beside the Avengers' leader, the famous faceplate up to reveal Tony Stark's even more famous features. He'll deny it, but he kind of spaces out for a completely fanboy second, but this is _Tony Freaking Stark_! He's a genius, he's revolutionized dozens of fields, he's created stuff out of pure scifi, and he's _right in front of Peter!_

"Hey, Nat, who's your friend?" Tony asks.

He probably shouldn't answer, but he can't help himself because _Tony Stark_ wants to know his name. "Peter," he manages, knowing he has to look like an idiot. "I'm Peter."

Tony's smile turns even warmer. "Hi, Pete, I'm Tony. Nice to meet you."

Intelligent brown eyes flick up, taking in the webs. Peter swallows hard, bracing himself for the disdain, the disgust because the webs aren't exactly pretty when they're fresh and they're downright ugly when they're dissolving, like they are right now.

"Cool trick," Tony says instead. "Nice job on that catch too." He looks back at Peter, who gets the distinct impression Tony's just noted every single thing about him and then some. "What made you think of a staggered break instead of a straight-up snag?"

"I-I didn't know how high Agent Romanov fell from," he stammers, "or, well, if she'd reached terminal velocity. I knew I could get her with one web, but the stop might break her neck." He shrugs a little, flushing. "I didn't know if I could catch her with more than one web directly, but I'm pretty quick at layering webs, so I did that instead."

"Smart," Tony murmurs approvingly. "Very smart."

"I owe you my life," the Widow sums up, leaning over. She ignores the way Peter tenses to spring to press her lips against his dirty cheek. "I will not forget that."

They're heroes, but only Captain America and the half-naked dude that must be the Hulk's other half look like they want to stop him as Peter offers her a shy smile and then leaps, catching the fire escape and springboarding off it, then the wall to somersault over the edge of the rooftop.


	2. Chapter 2

A/N: Malinkaya = little one

He doesn't think he'll ever see them again; they're Avengers, for Christ's sake, what does one street kid matter to them? He's perched on a dumpster in an alley off of Fifth, working discarded papers into his worn shoes in a futile attempt to extend their lifespan—new ones means more money than he can get easily—when a throat clears. He freezes, head jerking up as he tenses to spring.

"Please don't," a soft female voice says calmly. "I will catch you if I must, but why put either of us through that?"

He stares at the Widow. She's in civilian clothes rather than her black costume, jeans and a blue sweater, with high boots and a faint smile playing over her lips.

"What do you want?" he asks, still tense because she's an adult and adults are rarely good news.

"I told you, malinkaya, I owe you my life," she answers, head tilting slightly. "I pay my debts." She studies him, mouth compressing for a moment before she sighs, murmuring something too soft and swift for him to catch, let alone translate. "Come."

He doesn't really argue; if they were going to dump him off at the authorities, well, all they had to do was grab him—and he knows for a fact that both Captain America and the Hulk considered it, he saw it in their eyes. They let him go then, so it makes no sense that she's here to force him in. Besides, she can undoubtedly catch him if he bolts.

She takes him to a thrift store—a decent one, with goods that are only second-hand, not third or fourth. As he gapes at her, she moves through the store, picking up jeans that don't have any holes, a thick sweatshirt just worn enough to be in the store, a jacket that's heavy enough to keep out even the bitter New York winters, and sneakers. Nothing's new enough to draw attention, much less get him knifed the way new sneakers or clothes would…but they're all sturdy enough to keep him warmer than he's been in ages.

He wants to argue a little bit, a combination of pride and alarm. He's not a baby, he's taken care of himself for the past two years and he's done a decent enough job, seeing as he's still alive. More to the point, he's learned the hard way that nothing comes without a price. What will she ask for her generosity?

Maybe she won't want anything, that small part of him suggests, the part that can't quite stop hoping even though he's old enough to know hope is useless. Maybe she's just being nice, maybe she really is paying him back for saving her life.

He wants to believe, but he knows better than to trust in maybes. It never works out in the end.

She pays for the clothes without a word, although her eyes narrow briefly at whatever she sees on his face. She turns away from the register, clothes in a brown paper bag in one hand and catches his elbow in her free hand. Her grip is gentle, it doesn't even hurt a little, but he knows he won't be able to break it. She guides him straight to the small bathroom, hands him the bag, tells him to change and put whatever he doesn't want to keep in the bag and shuts the door on him.

He...well, there's really not much he can do; there's no window, nowhere to sneak out, so he changes into clothes that fit, that aren't worn so bare the wind bites right through them. The shoes are so comfortable he has to swallow hard for a minute against the burning sensation behind his eyes, because this is probably the nicest thing anyone's done for him since his aunt and uncle died.

She smiles when he walks out, ducking his head a little shyly. She takes the bag with his old clothes inside and tucks it away into her bag, but he doesn't ask why she wants them; no point, really, it's not like he's got anywhere to keep spare clothes, or a way to clean them other than the occasional visit to a shelter with a battered washer and dryer.

He's getting antsy, though; granted, she's in civvies and doesn't look like the black-clad woman the world knows as the Black Widow, but that doesn't mean she won't be recognized, and he can't afford any attention drawn to him. She looks at him, then steers him over to a street cart. They eat their hot dogs back in an alley, the Widow unphased by the part where they're sitting on a fire escape as she critiques the latest spy novels he's read. When they're done, he thanks her and leaves, scrambling up the fire escape and waving once from the top of the roof before he leaps to the next, and then the one after that.

Peter doesn't think much of the Widow's visit, doesn't let himself hope that the Avengers really give a crap about him. The Widow said it herself, she owed him a debt and she repaid it by feeding him and clothing him. He figures that's the end of it, even if a little bit of him wishes it were otherwise.


	3. Chapter 3

A/N: Thanks for the reviews and the favs!

A/N2: I have no idea what was playing in NYC in March 2012. We're going with MI4, because that's what was in my DVD player when I wrote this one.

* * *

Everything's quiet and normal for a couple of weeks, and Peter's moved on, gone back to what passes for normal in this crazy, messed-up life of his. It's Saturday, and it's warm for late March. The snow's melting, and while it's still cold, it's just warm enough that the Union Square Farmer's Market is bustling. It's not as crowded as it will be later in the season, when it's a fun way to spend a Saturday and there's plenty of fresh, homegrown produce at hand, but there's a decent number of people here.

Peter loves market days. The market opens at eight, so vendors arrive around six to claim their spots and set up. There's not a lot of freshly grown produce this time of year, although there's always imports and stuff nicked off the docks, but there's always a healthy amount of vendors at the market and today's no exception. He's enough of a familiar face that if he's waiting at Union Square at six, some of the regulars will let him help set up in return for a taste of their wares. Peter makes a point to avoid stealing from them, unlike some of the other kids he knows. There's no benefit in pissing the regulars off, and between what they feed him and the unsold wares some of them will give him at the end of the day, he usually scrounges enough food for a couple of days, sometimes more.

Today's shaping up to be a good day; he scored a pair of fresh-baked cinnamon sugar doughnuts and a plastic cup of warm cider that sends heat curling through his body, and he's got a blueberry Danish twist tucked away for later. Mrs. Bogdan promised him a coke whenever he wants in exchange for setting up her stall, and if he goes at the end of the day, he knows she'll give him a couple of the leftover meat rolls. Emily always gives him a piece of fruit, and puppy-dog eyes usually convince Mrs. Bruno to give him some fries or a hot dog around lunch.

Belly full, Peter turns his attention to the buyers. He doesn't like to steal; every time he lifts a wallet, he hears Uncle Ben's disapproving lectures in his head, he really does. But…he's not safely tucked away in their Queens townhouse anymore. He's a homeless kid living on the streets of Manhattan, hoping to God whoever's after him doesn't find him, and if he has to steal from those luckier than he to make it through another day, so be it. His moral objections to pickpocketing were overruled the first time he hadn't eaten in three days. He's twelve, it's not like he can find a job other than running drugs or selling his body, and he's not going down that road. Stealing the occasional wallet or six keeps him from that fate, and besides, he never keeps anything but the cash. Everything else is dropped into a fire that night.

There, a man absently shoving his wallet into his coat pocket for easy access. Peter brushes by him, face averted as his fingers skim just inside the pocket, the leather catching on his sticky fingers and lifting up cleanly. He's long gone by the time the man reaches into his pocket for his money. It's a good score, a damn good score: the guy must've planned on some shopping because there's nearly sixty bucks in his wallet. The cash is slipped under Peter's shirt and secured with a quick burst of webbing, the wallet slipped into the inside pocket of his coat to be disposed of in the first fire he finds tonight. He keeps out a couple of dollars and splurges on a bag of roasted nuts, a favorite treat and one he rarely indulges in. He lurks by the edge of the market, scanning the crowd for marks and considering his options. He's made a pretty good score, but he only comes to Saturday markets as a rule—more marks to pick from, more people to vanish into when a lift is done—and this needs to tide him over for awhile, because he doesn't hit the market every week. He'd better risk another, he decides, and studies the people. His last lift was on the other side of the square, so he'd better stick over here for this one. He'll vanish afterwards, he decides, swing back around closer to closing to help pack up and get his rewards then. So, who to hit?

His gaze catches on a tall guy, probably late thirties to early forties, wearing jeans and a nice sweater under a really nice coat. The guy's flashing his wallet, pulling out a twenty and handing it over to Mr. Eisner in return for a bag of fancy breads and pastries. Peter gets a good look at the contents; the guy's got a lot of cash. Maybe it'll be mostly ones, with just a few higher denominations thrown in—but maybe it'll be more. Worth the risk, he decides as it's dropped into an outer pocket, the edge peeking up out of the coat. Definitely worth the risk. His mark wanders along, heading out of the denser crowds and Peter hesitates briefly, instincts honed by two years on the streets warning of a trap. But his warning sense hasn't gone off and it usually does if this is some kind of sting by the local cops or something. There's no reason to think it's a trap, and if he gets a good score, he'll be set for awhile.

He makes his move, careful not to even bump into the guy, relying on his powers to swipe the wallet. It's out without so much as twitching the mark's coat, he's home free—and then a firm hand closes around his collar and tugs him back, lifting him just high enough to force him up on his tiptoes, too high for him to get any leverage to rip himself free. It's a professional grip, one he has no hope of breaking even with the extra strength the spider bite gave him.

"I believe that's mine."

He twists, fear sheeting through him because he's caught, he's trapped, dammit, and his would-be mark studies him through calm, shrewd eyes, apparently completely unruffled that some grimy kid just tried to rob him blind. He plucks his wallet from Peter's hand and glances up, stern face warming into a smile.

"Phil!" a cheerful voice greets. "Found him, huh? Hi, Pete!"

Peter twists back to blink at the newcomer, taking in serious muscles, spiky blond hair and blue-gray eyes. He knows this face, he's seen it on TV and posters.

"I'm Hawkeye, but you can call me Clint," the man introduces himself, ignoring the part where "Phil" is holding Peter up just enough that he can't squirm out of his jacket and run for it. "I hoped we'd run into you here." He grins at Peter, and it's such an open look that he can't help smiling back even through his fear. He's pretty sure that they're not going to turn him over the cops, even if he was stealing from Phil.

They don't call the cop lurking near the doughnut stand over. Instead, Phil passes him over to Clint, who holds on as firmly as the Widow did, and retrieves his wallet. He pulls out the cash and tucks the wallet back into his pocket before he crouches, putting himself eye-level with Peter.

"A hundred bucks," he says levelly, holding up the cash between two fingers. "This buys us your day. Agreed?"

He doesn't actually think he's got much of a choice. Besides, they haven't hurt him and they haven't turned him in, which are the two biggest worries right now. Still, he's not just going to give up.

"What's the catch?"

"No catch," Phil promises, and Peter believes him. Besides, it's not like he has anything to lose. Still...

If I'm back by closing at three, I'll get some leftovers for helping my regulars break down their stands," he says. Clint laughs softly.

"Hard bargain, kiddo, but I think we can do a bit better, right, Phil?"

Phil's lips quirk. "I think we can."

They do a lot better. By the time evening falls, he's been stuffed full with food off a variety of vending carts, good food, the kind of exotic food he's never had in his life because New York boasts an incredible variety of vending cart fare. Clint decreed they were going to see a movie, so Peter got to see the latest Mission Impossible. Phil and Clint's running commentary on improbable movie hijinks and the _right_ way to pull off various spy stuff is even more fun than the actual movie itself, and by the time it's done, he's even pitched in a few ideas on the actual physics behind the crappy imaginary movie tech, and how some of it might even be adaptable to real life. To his shy delight, Phil actually notes some of it down, explaining that he's a SHIELD agent-Peter has no idea what he means by that, but he gets it's some kind of super-spy agency that makes the CIA cry out of sheer envy-and that if Peter ever needs anything, he can come to their headquarters just off of Times Square and ask for Agent Coulson.

They both hesitate when he starts making noises about taking off, because being out in the open when night falls is a really bad idea. Clint grimaces, but he looks resigned. Phil's more quietly upset than Peter expected, but he meets Clint's stare and huffs an irritated breath.

"I'd tell you to get yourself a room for the night," he sighs, "but you're probably worse off in any place that would take you." He stares at Peter for a moment, and then he sighs again. "All right. Be careful. If you need anything, you're welcome at Avengers Tower—or you can find me at SHIELD headquarters."

He won't take them up on either offer, but he nods solemnly and then bolts across the street, vanishing into the maze of alleys that he calls home. And that night, sprawled out in a web-hammock and chewing absently on some kind of fancy brownie from the bag Phil gave him, he lets himself start to believe that maybe the Avengers really do give a damn about him.


	4. Chapter 4

A/N: sorry for the delay, guys. On the bright side, I've written over 9k words on this fill, and we're heading towards the end. Also, all info on any places/events is due to Google as I've never been to NYC. If there're any glaring errors, please let me know! Enjoy!

A/N2: Okay, so there are spoilers for The Amazing Spider-Man in here, although it goes AU pretty quick. I think I'm spoiling the first...ten minutes maybe? Fair warning!

* * *

It's a soaking wet spring day, complete with howling winds driving the sheets of rain onto anyone foolish or unlucky enough to be outside. Peter looks up, watching the rain wash down the windows, hearing it pound against the roof far above him. He likes the Library at 42nd Street best; it's huge, it's iconic, and it's enough of a tourist destination that it's always got people. There are also plenty of nooks for a kid to tuck himself into where nobody will disturb him, and he's buried himself in one of them with a stack of college level textbooks, some reference guides, a couple of journals, and three dictionaries. He's set for the day, and he fully plans on hunkering down and waiting out as much of the storm as he can. Gotta love those April showers, he thinks wryly, then turns his attention to his finds.

He's wading through a dense article on cross-species gene splicing by Dr. Curt Connors right now, cursing under his breath as he cross-references like crazy, trying to follow everything. He's smart and he knows it, but he's also largely self-taught. Aunt May and Uncle Ben wouldn't let him move up into an accelerated program, stating that they felt he should stay with his peers, so his only formal biology and physics education was pretty low-key. He's taught himself a lot, but there are still things he doesn't get. This...he gets the basic concepts, he learned those sitting on his father's lab bench in the home lab, with Dad explaining theories and sketching out the math on his whiteboard. But this article is geared towards and grad students, not a self-taught twelve year old, and it's driving him nuts. Curt Connors was his Dad's partner at Oscorp, he helped Dad engineer the spiders, including the specimen Dad had smuggled out and kept at home, the one that bit Peter when he was too little to even really remember it. There's gotta be a reason why his parents died, why his aunt and uncle were killed, and everything in him says he'll find it here, in Dr. Connors' research.

"Hey."

It's a male voice, soft in deference to the Library's policies, and Peter doesn't recognize it. He goes very still, every muscle tensing as adrenaline races through his veins. It won't be one of the librarians; they're used to him, and besides, the weather's foul enough that he risked a shelter last night, meaning he's freshly showered and his clothes newly cleaned, leaving him looking like any ordinary kid. It may just be a well-meaning adult come to tease or chide him for hoarding research materials he can't possibly understand, in which case he'll either spout off some higher level physics or retreat, depending on how pissed off and dangerous the adult is. More alarming is the prospect that it'll be an adult who's been watching him long enough to realize he's not mucking around, he understands most of this stuff...that never, ever leads anywhere good, because that type of adult usually gets very unhappy at the thought of Peter "wasting his talents" on the streets. Those situations usually result in evading security, and then avoiding the Library for a few weeks until the fuss dies down, CPS vanishes again, and he can risk showing his face.

He hates well-meaning adults, he really does. He's smart enough to get himself into this, do they think he's not smart enough to find the ways out? He's got his reasons for staying out on the streets, and he's not going to let anyone change that.

He peers over the top of his book, then relaxes a little as Dr. Banner grins at him, hands shoved into his coat pockets, rocking a little on the balls of his feet. Peter's not entirely sure why the Avengers have decided he's interesting and worth their time, but they've been feeding him for months, it's earned them a certain amount of trust. Besides, if they really wanted him off the streets, they could've done it by force and he wouldn't stand a chance. He's not entirely sure what they want, but they're on his list of safe adults-the only ones on that list, actually-and he knows that Dr. Banner isn't going to hurt him.

Also, Dr. Banner is probably smarter than Stephen Hawking. He's revolutionized biology, physics, and he's the foremost bio-geneticist on the planet now that he's an Avenger and his name's been cleared. Peter idolizes him nearly as much as he does Tony Stark, which is really saying something.

He can't help lighting up, can't help the beaming smile he shoots at Dr. Banner even as he scrambles up. "Hi!"

Unfortunately, he's too quick and he sends his teetering pile of texts crashing down with his sudden movement. The next few minutes are a blur of grabbing hands, but they manage to save most of the books from tumbling down—and avoid getting themselves booted out by the ever-vigilant librarians. Dr. Banner drops into a spare seat, laughing under his breath as he takes in the haphazard pile of books and papers before he turns dancing eyes on Peter.

"A little light reading?" he teases, and Peter flushes.

"I like biology," he murmurs, and it's true. He loves physics, biology…really, he's yet to meet a hard science he doesn't adore.

"Hmm," Dr. Banner murmurs, a knowing glint in his eyes as he looks at Dr. Connors' article, still open in front of Peter. "Okay." He glances at his watch. "We've got some time to kill."

Peter opens his mouth to ask why they're killing time, but Dr. Banner's already scooting his chair over, nimble fingers pulling one of the references he hasn't gotten to yet out of the pile as he flips it open. He's an awesome teacher, and Peter's too overawed at having this man's entire focus to question him on anything not science-based. Besides, Dr. Banner is actually making sense in a way Dr. Connors' papers just…don't.

And then Peter's caught up in it all, because he _recognizes _this math. He saw it eight years ago in his father's study. He saw it two years ago, in the folder his father had hidden in his satchel in Uncle Ben's basement. He still dreams of this math…and of the formula that completes it.

Part of him wants to fill in that missing piece, but he can't. He won't. He lost his parents, and his aunt and uncle. He can't—won't—risk losing anyone else to a stupid formula his dad hid years ago.

By the time they're done, Peter actually understands the work he suspects destroyed his family. Dr. Banner—Bruce, he's insisting that Peter call him Bruce—checks his watch again and makes a satisfied noise. He studies Peter for a moment, and Peter eyes him back, both baffled and intrigued, but completely unafraid.

"Time to go," Bruce informs him, stacking the books and journals in a neat pile on a reshelving cart. He folds up the scraps of paper they've been using and tucks them into his pockets, leaving no trace behind. Peter's healthy sense of paranoia approves as he scrambles up, briefly wishing that he had more time to spend with the genius, thankful for the time he did have. Bruce hooks a casual hand over his shoulder and steers them both out, pausing briefly at the rain still pouring down. There's a plain black sedan at the bottom of the steps, and Bruce points at it.

"That's our ride!" he calls, already jogging down the steps and bringing Peter with him. Their ride? Huh? Before he can decide whether he wants to resist or not, it's too late, Bruce bundles him into the backseat, grabbing towels from the driver and rubbing one over Peter's head before he blots himself dry.

"What?" Peter sputters, obediently rubbing the thick towel over himself.

"Field trip," Bruce informs him. "Tony's running the Stark Future Science Exhibition."

Peter's heard about SFSE; everyone has. It's not the extravaganza of the Stark Expo, but it's geared exclusively towards science, meant to introduce new ideas and the brightest scientific hopes of the future to the average layperson. Peter's been drooling over the ads on the Times Square screens and the flyers for months, but it's an unreachable dream; he can't afford the tickets, which sold out in the first week anyway.

"I—I don't have a ticket," he says stupidly, knowing it's stupid even as the words tumble out. Bruce quirks a faint smile at him.

"That's because you're mine," he says smugly. "Tony lost the coin toss, or he'd be here." He searches through a compartment, pulls out two colorful passes and drapes one over Peter's head. "Here. Your exclusive, better-than-VIP pass. You can go anywhere in the SFSE with this, and it gives you complete access to everything in the building, including food and merchandise, so get whatever catches your eye."

It's better than an all-access pass to candyland, and Peter says as much. Bruce laughs and ruffles his hair.

"Uh huh. You're mine today, Tony gets you tomorrow." The car pulls up in front of the SFSE and Bruce gently pushes Peter out. "C'mon, kiddo, time to play."

And play they do. He can't remember having more fun, or feeling so challenged. Bruce is an awesome teacher, explaining what Peter doesn't understand by feeding him bits and pieces, giving him enough to put it together on his own. He sees things he's never thought of, and his mind is a blur of images and half-formed ideas by the time Bruce steers him backstage for one of Bruce's own presentations. Before he can panic just a little at the idea of being left alone in this sea of strangers who might somehow recognize him as Richard Parker's son, even if it is only for thirty minutes, Natasha pounces and he spends the presentation glued to Bruce's every word, safe in the knowledge that the woman next to him won't let anything bad happen.

The exhibition goes on and on, stretches late into the night, and Peter begins to flag. He's used to waking in the predawn hush, and bedding down fairly quickly after night falls; that's the way of the streets when you're a kid who's not turning tricks or selling shit. Steve must notice, although he doesn't say anything, just lets Peter lean more heavily onto his shoulder until he falls asleep. He wakes enough to grumble blearily as he's carefully moved before he's lifted, but Clint murmurs soothingly, the archer's arms firm and steady. There's the brief bite of cold night air, then the quiet hum of a high-class engine as he's transferred so carefully he barely even twitches, and that's it, he's out for the count.

He wakes up, and for a single horrible moment, he has no idea where he is. The room's big, bigger even than the one he had at Uncle Ben's townhouse, and one entire side of it is composed entirely of windows showing a view of the skyline that people would kill for. The bed's sinfully soft, as are the warm sheets and the pillow he's lying on. It's a far cry from the web hammocks he's gotten used to, and so atypical that he freezes up entirely for a breathless moment of sheer panic as he tries to place where he is and what's going on.

"Good morning, young sir," a warm English-accented voice intones from everywhere and nowhere, and Peter jumps so high he hits the ceiling and clings, looking around frantically.

"Wha—" he gasps.

"I am JARVIS," the voice says mildly. "It is seven-thirty am. The temperature is fifty-two, and the forecast is clear."

Well, it doesn't seem all that threatening, at least. He drums up enough sanity to ask an actual question. "W-where am I?"

"You are in Stark Tower, Avengers quarters, in the floor shared by Sir and Master Rogers," the voice informs him. Peter relaxes a little as it sinks in. Apparently he fell asleep last night and rather than wake him up, they brought him home. He glances down his body and flushes—somebody changed him into fresh PJs too, and he has no idea where his clothes went.

"Morning, kiddo," an amused voice says from the door, and he twists to peer at the door Tony's leaning against, clearly amused. "Now that's not a sight you see every day." He laughs softly as Peter lets himself fall, landing neatly on his feet. "Steve should be getting back from his run any minute now, which means Bruce'll be firing up breakfast in the communal floor." He looks at Peter with warm eyes, reaching out to straighten his pajama top. "Bathroom's through there, clean clothes are in the closet and the drawers." He looks up at the ceiling. "JARVIS, full bioscan on Pete."

Part of him wants to panic. His parents let him use his powers inside the house, but outside wasn't permitted. He's put enough together to figure out that the spider Dad brought home when he was three was stolen from Oscorp, and that its bite somehow made him a living example of Dad's cross-species gene splicing. He's pretty damn sure he's the only successful human sample, and he's got a bad feeling he knows who sent the goons that drove him into hiding on the streets. But…they're the Avengers. This is Tony Stark, and if they wanted samples from him, well, he was out cold when they carried him in here, so for all he knows, they've already taken whatever they wanted. They haven't hurt him, they've gone way out of their way to help him and he knows it. Hell, there's no way Tony or Bruce benefits by giving a street kid complete access to Tony's exhibition, much less spending so much of their valuable time on him.

He trusts them, Peter realizes on a flash of surprise. He really trusts them. When did that happen?

"Bioscan complete, sir."

"Save to memory, my server only," Tony orders, holding Peter's stunned stare. "Full access to communal floor, and this floor. Tower's open," Tony tells him, calm and casual like he's not offering Peter free reign into the biggest, most awesome playhouse on earth. Pete gapes at him.

"Seriously?"

Tony laughs softly, his grin crooked and warm. "My house, kiddo, my rules. You're welcome whenever you like, whether it's to grab a meal, get out of the cold, or just hang out. If we're not there, JARVIS will let you in."

He gives it a moment to sink in and pretends he doesn't see the way Peter scrubs a quick hand over his face to hide the tears stinging his eyes, but this…he never ever expected anything like this. He feels safe for the first time in ages, because he's got a sanctuary now, somewhere to come if he needs it.

"Captain Rogers has returned," JARVIS announces. "He will meet you and the young sir for breakfast in the communal kitchen."

"Steve Rule Number One: you have to eat before you can play," Tony says ruefully. "Go, my young padawan. Shower, change, eat, then we'll go back to the Exhibition, where we will critique and generally blow your mind with my and Bruce's awesomeness."

Tony's right. The day's awesome, but not as awesome as the Avengers are.

* * *

A/N3: Thanks for all the reviews and favs, it keeps me motivated! Also, since a couple people have PM with some concerns: yes, this is a fill from the Avengers Kink Meme, and yes, I am the author at both. I appreciate the concern, but no, I am not plagiarizing my own fic, I promise. (Actually, I don't think that's possible, but, uh, you get the point.) This is just the revised version that will also go up at AO3 when it's done. Please review!


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